


Where Time Can Never Heal

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dreams vs. Reality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Rain, Sibling Incest, Tears, Weather As Metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 20:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3664728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Nirnaeth, Maedhros is completely broken, and Maglor tries to comfort him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Time Can Never Heal

**Author's Note:**

> **B2MeM Challenge:** [General Prompts](http://b2mem.livejournal.com/284221.html?thread=5046845#t5046845): weather plays a large role in a story, rainy day activities, etc. 
> 
> Also inspired by [a prompt on the Silmarillion Kink Meme](http://silmarillionkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1329.html?thread=97073#cmt97073), and 'Trail Of Broken Hearts' by Dragonforce (which is 100% about Maedhros & Maglor, no one can convince me otherwise). There's also a bit inspired by someone's post, can't remember where or whose, about the ambiguity of having two characters who could both conceivably be nicknamed 'Kano' and how that could lead to accidental incest.

_"Fly away down the lonely roads of yesterday_  
_Close your eyes to see the light of brighter days_  
_And all alone we'll be where time can never heal_  
_With the trail of broken hearts flying free."_  
\- Trail Of Broken Hearts, by Dragonforce

\-----

Maglor, as was his way, no more had lived through the Battle of Unnumbered Tears than he began to compose a song about it. It would dwell in his head for a long while before it ever made its way to his voice or his harp, changing and shifting, a tune he would softly hum in the mornings, and when he lay in his tent at night, unable to sleep, listening to the rain that seemed as though it had been falling ever since the battle and their flight into Ossiriand. 

Maedhros was used to this, and no one else would ever share a tent or a room with Maglor, knowing his habit. So it was natural that in the wild, they curled up together. No one thought anything of it, and all around them were doing the same. It was freezing cold, as well as wet, far too early that autumn, and they had very little shelter, mainly just rescued and borrowed tents, along with caves in the hills as they could find them. 

Maedhros, ever the solid bulwark of the family, was broken like the walls of Himring, overcome by the same Balrogs that destroyed Fingon. He seemed at times as though he intended to shed all those unnumbered tears alone, and Maglor wondered, in the very dark corner of his mind that could not refrain from commenting sarcastically on genuine tragedies, if Maedhros had swallowed the whole of the Sea and was bent on crying it out again directly. 

The tables were turned now, and Maedhros, always the oldest brother, ever the one all his younger brothers turned to, was lost, desperate for comfort and help. For a long time Maglor did not know what to do and listened silently to the broken sobs coming from the other side of the tent every night, half in his mind working them artistically into his song. And then one night, nearly three months after the battle, Maedhros was silent, curled up, far away, fists clenched in the bedding, eyes blankly staring without the peace of reverie. He walked in memory, lost in a dream. 

When Maglor’s hand landed gently on his shoulder, Maedhros did not move at all, did not register the contact. Maglor, very concerned now, bent over him, calling softly. 

“Russandol,” he whispered into Maedhros’ ear. “Russandol, come back!” He tentatively shook Maedhros’ shoulder, then gentled the motion into a series of strokes across his upper back. Maedhros breathed out softly at last and turned unseeing eyes to Maglor. 

“My ‘Kano?” he whispered. 

“Yes, I’m here,” Maglor said, not completely sure whether Maedhros had said ‘Kano’ or ‘Findekano’ and caring about it very little. What mattered was that Maedhros should talk. But Maedhros was still in the grip of a long-lost memory, and reached up a hand to cup Maglor’s face. 

“My love,” he said softly. “How I need you now more than ever.” And he moved his head up, kissing Maglor tenderly. 

Maglor’s first impulse was to pull back, to tell him that Findekano wasn’t...here, that it was only Maglor. But the feel of his brother’s lips against his awoke his own buried griefs. Long, long had it been since he had been touched or kissed by anyone and the contact was sweet. 

And, he rationalised, Maedhros needed this one moment of sweetness to bring him back to himself, and what was a kiss between brothers? This was nothing more than what they had shared in happier days, in a long-lost childhood that now was so far away it seemed almost like it had happened to different people. 

Their lips lingered together, and at last Maglor drew away, breaking the contact. But Maedhros followed him, and there was a faint laughter in his voice, the remembrance holding him. 

“Oh, come now, my Findekano!” he said. “Soon we shall be parted for a while. Once my father has negotiated the ships from the Teleri, my family will sail, but we will send the ships straight back for you and yours. Surely one more kiss, a few more touches, until we meet again?” 

It was indeed an ancient memory that held Maedhros. Maglor’s breath caught, realising when his mind had gone back to - after the Oath, but before the Kinslaying, as they made their preparations to march. Maedhros and Fingon must have met to say farewell for what they thought would be a short time, then. 

It would be many years before they met again, and this was partly due to Maglor’s own folly and error. For though Maedhros stood aside when the ships were burned, he was the only one. Maglor, caught up in their father’s words, himself aided to fire the ships. And it was Maglor, briefly holding the kingship after Feanor’s death and Maedhros’ capture, who decided that they would not send anyone after him, that no rescue would be attempted. Time would never heal the grief and guilt he felt for that. 

Caught in guilt and regret, he let Maedhros capture his lips again. The kiss was deeper this time, far beyond brotherly, and Maglor noticed to his amazement that the embrace was affecting him, that he was growing hard against Maedhros’ hip. Panic set in for a moment and he pushed Maedhros away, heart pounding, breath coming fast. Outside the rain pounded down, hiding what Maedhros had said from all but himself. 

Not like this. Not this way, with Maedhros half in a dream of a time long gone by, half overwhelmed by grief and loss. Not like this, full of fear, doubt, and regret on his part. And searching his thoughts, he found that the prospect of finding a certain kind of comfort with his (dear, most dear) brother was not the sticking point. But if Maedhros touched him, kissed him, embraced him, it should be Maglor he was embracing, not a lost love, not a long-ago memory. 

“Maedhros!” he said at last, sharply, cutting through the haze of his brother’s dreams like a knife through cloth. “Maedhros, hear me!”

And Maedhros stirred out of the dream, looking around with a confused glance, eyes darting to Maglor’s lips and tumbled clothing. 

“What did I...?” he began and trailed off, hesitant, worried. “Brother, if I have hurt thee...?”

Maglor shook his head. “You have not hurt me. But you cannot be dreaming like this. We are very far from the western lands, and I am not Findekano.” 

Maedhros smiled a little, reflexively, at the mention of that name. “I know. But I ask thy pardon, for I knew not where I was.” 

Maglor slid closer, wrapping his arms around Maedhros, encouraging him to curl in close. Maedhros moved carefully, almost passively, but he came, and at the last began to cling tight to Maglor. His eyes were burning with unshed tears. Maglor leant in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, like he would comfort a child almost, like he remembered Maedhros doing for him, so long ago. And Maedhros’ eyes went blank, this time in peaceful reverie. 

For a long time, Maglor watched as Maedhros slept, kissing the fair brow when he looked to be having troubled dreams, smoothing a hand over his back, over his hair. And the pain in Maedhros’ face would ease a little every time. Outside, it kept raining and raining, as though the sky itself was crying tears for their loss. 

Maglor was still wakeful when morning came and Maedhros stirred at last. He took a deep breath and looked around himself, and his eyes were clearer, more focused. He caught Maglor’s glance at him and smiled, a little too carefully. 

“Thank you, ‘Kano,” he said. “I would not have you watch again over me.” 

Maglor shrugged. “With the rain, it is unlikely we will move today. I felt my time better spent watching you than all else I could be doing.” He took in a deep breath. “In whatever way you have need of me, I would be willing to find comfort with you.” 

Maedhros’ eyes widened; Maglor knew the hint he had given had not gone unnoticed. “In whatever way?” he asked. “Are you saying what it sounds that you are saying, ‘Kano?” 

In Valinor, there were laws against the acts that were now being spoken of, but not here, not in Middle-earth. “As I said to you, dear one,” Maglor said, “we are very far from western lands.” And he leaned forward, brushing Maedhros’ lips with his own, almost too brief a kiss to mean anything beyond brotherhood, in any context other than this one. And Maedhros followed his mouth back, taking the kiss deeper, pressing him down into the blankets with gentle pressure. 

They were crossing a line now willingly, open-eyed. And despite the fact that their ill deeds already condemned them, this was something more. For some strange reason, the Valar seemed to consider it less of an ill deed to slay your brother than to find release with him, and for the life of him, Maglor could not figure out why, if both desired it. 

Maedhros’ mouth was gentle and firm against his, eyelashes fluttering down. He looked more at peace, kissing Maglor, than he had since before the battle, and that was a prize Maglor had deeply longed for. Maglor allowed his own eyes to drift shut, and dwelt for a little while indulging in the taste and feel of his brother, warm and comforting, but also fire underneath his skin, sweet sparks of passion sweeping down his spine to gather at the base of his cock. 

Maedhros groaned, soft and quiet, against his lips, and drew back from their kiss, but pressed against Maglor, lower down. He was hard against Maglor’s thigh, and Maglor leaned into it, turning his body to allow Maedhros to feel an answering hardness, pressing back again into Maedhros’ hip. 

For a moment they both paused, and almost drew back again, the instincts of a lifetime nearly taking over, but then Maglor slipped his hand down between them, deliberately fondling Maedhros' erection through his clothing. Maedhros gasped sharply and pressed his head against Maglor's shoulder, their hair mingling, bright red and raven dark. Maedhros pressed forward, against his hand, seeking contact. 

Between them, they fumbled their clothing apart, pulled leggings down just far enough so that Maglor could take both of them in his hand. Maedhros wound his hand into Maglor's hair, tugging it hard. Maglor moaned softly at this, wondering how Maedhros knew he liked to have his hair pulled. Maglor's other hand went to the back of Maedhros' neck, and he pulled him down into a lingering kiss, their mouths coming together perfectly as though they were made for each other. Maedhros was exceptionally talented at kissing when he put his mind into it, and Maglor suppressed a surge of jealousy aimed at the dead one whose presence still lingered between them, for all the years he had been able to kiss Maedhros like this and Maglor had not. 

Maedhros' hips were moving against his own, and Maglor could feel the heat of his brother's erection against his own, in his hand, and it was that even more than the movements they were making that fired up his blood. This was Maedhros against him, with him, and even in a cold tent in rainy Ossiriand it was all he had wanted, for longer than he had realised until now. He could not refrain from kissing Maedhros again, reminding him of who held him now. 

"Russandol," he whispered, his voice sounding needy and broken to his own ears. Maedhros looked at him, their eyes meeting, the shared need between them nearly at breaking point. 

"Makalaure," Maedhros' mouth shaped the word, and it was that, simply that, his brother's mouth forming the syllables of the name he had not used in centuries, which tipped him over the edge. His head went back, eyes wide as he shuddered and spilled, but did not stop stroking Maedhros, even all through his own orgasm. Maedhros dropped his head down against Maglor's shoulder again and came with a quiet groan that sounded almost painful, after a moment more. 

They lay together, and breathed quietly against each other, guilty, sated. Maedhros did not look up at Maglor's face, but stayed hidden against his shoulder, slow tears beginning once more, wetting Maglor's tunic. Maglor held him gently, feeling very tender. "Shh, dear one," he whispered softly. "I am here. I will always be here." 

The tears did not cease, but Maedhros relaxed in his arms. After a moment Maglor began to sing, very softly against Maedhros' ear, and Maedhros sighed, curling close. It was cold and raining outside, but where they held each other it was warm, and the tears that fell seemed like rain as well. They clung together, and waited for the rain to stop.


End file.
